Never a Friend
by Charis M
Summary: Blaise Zabini learns an uncomfortable truth when an unexpected delivery sends him to his Head of House for some equally unexpected help.


**Never a Friend**  
by Charis

_Disclaimer: Nothing here belongs to me, except the story itself. Characters are property of J. K. Rowling._

_Notes: Still rough; this has not been beta'd or copy-edited or anything like that, so any kind of comments are greatly appreciated. What comes of thinking about the eternally genderless Blaise Zabini when one is entirely too tired. Dratted insomnia.  
This is, in a very _VERY_ roundabout fashion, connected to "Once an Enemy", though only in the vaguest manner possible, which is why the second half of the quote is used as the title here. It's the same Snape as there, to be certain._

Before I left for school that first year, my father told me at dinner that he would be proud of me no matter which House I ended up in -- proud of me, my mother added, for myself, not for what others said I was. Did they know there would be those whispers -- Slytherin, house of liars and cheat and, most importantly, Dark wizards? I watched my fellow first years go up one by one to sit beneath the hat, and I could see it clearly in most of their eyes: not Slytherin, please not Slytherin, anywhere but Slytherin. Some few were the opposite -- only Slytherin, please not Gryffindor -- and they, I learned, were the ones to be cautious around. Winding up there didn't seem too bad to me; cunning was a compliment, after all, and surely no rumour was entirely true.

That summer, my father gave me a piece of advice. "You can survive there one of two ways," he said. "Either you hide in the shadows, or you make yourself seem like them. Just be careful, my boy; seeming and being are very close." I was young, and convinced of my own invincibility, and chose to camouflage myself. I sneered and simpered at all the right people, bowed and scraped before the Malfoy brat -- in short, I played the role well.

Too well? It seems so.

It came last week, this offer I cannot refuse. If I turn it down, it will mean my parents' deaths for certainty, and if I am fortunate, my own -- or if I am not, endless pain. If I accept, I can shield them from harm, at least for a little while longer. And maybe, just maybe, I can do a little to restore the good name of Slytherin. To show them we're not all Dark.

When the letter arrived that morning in the Great Hall -- on All Saints' Day, delivered by an enormous eagle-owl -- I marked the reactions of my House. Who was smug, who seemed to know, who looked blank or curious -- and who pointedly looked away. I had learned over the years to watch, and I saw, too, the expression on my Head-of-House's face: disgust, quickly hidden beneath that usual sneer.

It certainly wasn't because of that reaction that I decided to approach him. To be perfectly honest, I don't know why. Maybe it was some half-forgotten conversation, for my parents had discussed with me the wartime backgrounds of my Housemates -- just to be safe, they'd said, so I knew who to be wary of. Maybe it was something in his manners; despite the sarcastic exterior, there were moments in Potions class when there seemed to be -- not a kindness, but an understanding -- to him. No matter that he said little; he saw much.

Maybe it was intuition.

Whatever the reason, I bundled my Potions books and homework up late one Friday afternoon, tucked the letter into the inner pocket of my robes, and headed down the long flight of stairs to the dungeons. The door was open; the last of the third-year students just leaving, Snape glowering from behind his desk. When I came in, he arched a sardonic brow.

"Questions, Zabini?"

"Sir," I said by way of answer, and took out the letter. He did not touch it, merely looked at it as though it were a loathsome thing before his eyes -- hard, flat, dark -- burned into mine.

"And _why_," he snarled, "are you waving that around in my face?"

Part of me wanted to protest that I was hardly waving it. Part of me quailed, wondered if this had been the wrong decision -- wondered if going to the Headmaster might not have been a better choice. But it was a Slytherin matter, and I had enough House loyalty to keep it there.

"Because I need advice, sir. And regardless of where your true loyalties lie --" I got no further. He rose in one swift move, and his wand came up -- and a breath later, the door slammed shut. He did not lower the wand, but left it pointed at me, hand shaking just slightly.

"If this is some game, Zabini, I assure you I will know -- and you will not walk out of here capable of turning this against me. Sit." And when I hesitated, "_Sit_! Confound it, boy, I'm not going to kill you!"

Since I had half-suspected him to do just that, I said nothing and did as bidden. He resumed his own seat, wand never wavering.

"Now. Start at the beginning." Clipped, curt syllables. "Why are you here?"

And so I told him -- haltingly, wondering if I was damning myself and my parents -- of the contents of that letter, and of my conclusion that I had no choice but to join, and my decision to do what I could for the opposition, perhaps in exchange for my parents' safety, but failing that out of sheer spite. He smirked, just a little, when I pointed out that even a Slytherin could fall on the side of Light, but that smirk faded entirely when I related my father's memory of the Ministry trials, and his own part in them.

"And how," he said, when I had finished, "do you know that I haven't returned to Voldemort, and that you have condemned yourself with every word you speak?"

A deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. "I don't. But with all due respect, sir, you don't seem like that type."

He laughed, then, bitter and self-mocking. "Ask your father, when you see him next, who I was testifying against in those trials. This was a very foolish move on your part, Zabini."

"Then you won't help --"

"Oh, I will," and I caught, unspoken, _if only in self-preservation_. "If you're determined to do this, there isn't any other choice."

He pulled a scrap of parchment off the corner of his desk, scrawled a few words on it, and passed it over to me. "Go see the Headmaster, Zabini; he can take care of this. Come back here tomorrow morning -- nine o'clock, and if you're late, you're not worth my time."

I gathered up my books and papers, clutching the parchment in one hand. As I made for the doors, his voice stopped me.

"And Zabini --"

I looked back over my shoulder, one hand on the doorknob.

"You're a Slytherin. Try to be more subtle."

For some reason, I could not keep from grinning as I left the dungeons.


End file.
